TALES FROM A DUGOUT

OVERVIEW:

TALES FROM A DUGOUT by Arthur Guy Empey is a historical account written during World War I and published in 1918. The book offers an authentic glimpse into the experiences of soldiers in the trenches during World War I, detailing their daily lives, camaraderie, and the harsh realities of combat. The narrative is centered on a group of machine gunners in the British Army, including characters like Curly, Happy, and Dick, who share stories, songs, and moments of reflection in their cramped and damp dugout. The opening portion of the memoir sets the stage in a dugout situated close to the German front lines, where the soldiers cope with the stresses of war through storytelling and the sharing of tea. The text introduces the crew members and their nicknames, which reflect their personalities, and hints at their unique bond forged in the trenches. As they gather together to pass the time, they recount various tales, highlighting their fears, hopes, and the somber realities of their situation. The opening culminates with the story of Jim, a plucky dog who becomes the soldiers' mascot, symbolizing loyalty and companionship amid the horrors of war. This segment establishes the book's tone, blending humor and pathos while inviting readers to connect with the soldiers' humanity in the brutal context of conflict.

The following excerpt from TALES FROM A DUGOUT is titled 7. A SIREN OF THE BOCHES:

7. A SIREN OF THE BOCHES

 

AS TOLD BY A YANK FROM A PERSONAL EXPERIENCE

RELATED TO HIM BY A SOLDIER NAMED ATWELL

 

 The British Lion was roaring and his growls could be heard all along the Western Front. Many German generals were stirring uneasily in their large, sumptuously-furnished concrete, shell-proof dugouts, miles behind the German front line trenches, as the ever-increasing thundering roar reached their ears. In their hearts, there was an unknown dread, perhaps a weakening of faith in the all-powerful might of their 'Me und Gott.'

 

“We had a close-up view of the King of Beasts, in his majestic might, as he crouched ready for a spring, his tail furiously and impatiently thumping the ground. In a way he was a sorry-looking specimen; patches of hide were missing, revealing wounds, some of which had entirely healed, while others were still freshly bleeding, exposing the raw flesh. If these scars had been labeled it would have been easy to read, 'Lusitania,' 'Hospital Ships Torpedoed,' 'Zeppelin Murders,' 'Poison Gas,' 'Liquid Fire.' The memory and pain of these atrocities increased his impatience to spring, and whetted his appetite to rend and tear.

 

“The British bombardment of the German lines was on, a bombardment which lasted for eight days and eight nights. At night, the sky was a red glare, as if the world were on fire. Scarlet tongues of flame would suddenly shoot up from the German lines and just as suddenly die out, only to be replaced by countless others as thousands of British shells burst in the air or buried themselves in the ground, searching out the German rats in their holes.

 

“Continuous flashes from the British rear paid tribute to the artillerymen, stripped to the waist, sweating and scorched by the breath of their guns, as they fed shells to the iron monsters. Overhead, a rushing noise like the passing of an express train, or a moaning sigh through the air meant that the steel messengers of death and vengeance were on their way—on their way to give the Germans a taste of the Hell that they had prepared for others. The earth seemed to heave and crack as if some huge giant had been buried alive and was struggling for air. This bombardment was the forerunner of the Battle of the Somme.

 

“Atwell and I were alone in the machine gunner’s dugout of the support trench, the gun crew being on duty in the fire trench. Atwell, a great big lovable fellow, was my mate. We had both been detailed to the Military Police of the Divisional Intelligence Department and were engaged in 'spy work.' Atwell, although of a naturally cheery disposition, occasionally lapsed into fits of despondency.

“By the light from the stump of candle, I was making out my previous day's report to turn in to Brigade Headquarters. At intervals, the entrance to the dugout would light up red as a shell burst—the candle would flicker and almost go out from the air pressure. My mate was sitting on his pack, his back leaning against the dank and muddy wall of the dugout. Finishing my report, I got out a fag, lighted it, and with an anxious, lonely feeling, hearkened to the roar of the hell outside. A long drawn sigh caused me to look in Atwell's direction. The rays from the candle lighted up his face, the rest of his body being in semi-darkness. Never before in my life had I seen such a dejected and woebegone countenance. This, in a way, angered me, because I, myself, right then had a feeling of impending disaster, a sort of dread intermingled with a longing for the faraway fields and flowers in Blighty. I wanted to be cheered, expected it, but Atwell's face looked like a morgue.

"Forcing a smile, which, in comparison no doubt made a graveyard look like a musical comedy, I leaned over, slapped him on the knee, and said:

 "Come out of your trance and cheer up. We've both got a damn good chance for Blighty with this bombardment on.

 

"Atwell looked in my direction, and in a tone which I had never heard before from him, answered:

 

"'I've been out here since '14. I've buried many a mate and I've seen many a lucky bloke on a stretcher bound for Blighty, and many an unlucky one on a stretcher bound for a hole in the ground, and never gave it a thought, but right now I feel that my stay in the trenches is short.'

 

"I butted in with, 'Cheero, mate, we all get downhearted at times. You are going to march into Berlin with the rest of us.'

 

"'March into Hell!' Atwell answered. 'I tell you that I am going to click it, I can feel it coming. Whether it's Blighty or a wooden cross remains to be seen. I've had something on my mind since September 1914, and it's been worrying me pink. I'm going to tell you the story and I'll give you my oath that you're the first one that ever heard it from my lips. I've got to get it out of my system.'

 

"Just then came a whizzing through the air. We both instinctively turned our eyes toward the entrance of the dugout and waited for the burst. Nothing happened.

 

"'Another bloomin' dud,' said Atwell. 'A few more German marks gone to seed.' Then, the gloomy look again spread over his face. I was getting nervous and uneasy. Fritz was dropping his shells too near for comfort.

 

“Trying to hide my fear, I said, 'For th' love o' Blighty, Atwell, crack a smile. Give us that story of yours, or else I'll go balmy. You'd better get it off your chest because Fritz is replying to our strafing, and if an eight-inch shell ever hits this dugout they'll need no wooden crosses for us. Our names will appear on the Roll of Honour, under the caption Missing.

 

"With another sigh escaping from his lips, which sent a cold shiver up and down my spinal column, he lighted a fag and started in. This is what he told me:

 

"'It was back in September 1914. You know I came out with the First Expeditionary Force, the time when all the fighting was being done in the open. The Germans were smashing everything before them in their drive to Paris. Our Brigade was one of the few opposed to von Kluck [Alexander von Kluck – German General]. It was a case of holding them for a few hours and then retreat—always retreat—with the German tide lapping our heels. We didn't even have time to bury our dead. The grub was rotten, and we were just about fagged out, dead tired, with no prospect of relief or rest in front of us, and Hell behind.

 

"'It was customary for small patrols of ten to twenty men, under a sergeant, to reconnoiter on our flanks. One day I was sent out in command of one of these parties. Oh, yes, I was a sergeant then, but I lost my stripes—no, I wasn't busted—just resigned of my own accord. I was in for a commission, too, but of course, I let it go with the sergeant's stripes. I guess I was lucky at that, because had I received it, no doubt by this time I'd be pushing up daisies somewhere in France. In those days, you know, officers didn't last long—they made fine targets for the Boches.

 

"'The patrol I was in command of carried rations for three days. We had orders to scout around on our left flank, keeping in touch with the advancing Germans, but not to engage them—just get information. If the information was valuable, I was to send it in by one of the men. There were fourteen of us, and we were mounted. I was in the Lancers then, and was considered a fair rider—got transferred to this outfit after I resigned from sergeant—I guess they smelled a rat.”

You can find the complete eBook edition of TALES FROM A DUGOUT by Arthur Guy Empey at: https://tinyurl.com/yvsxp3ec

Complete World War One works of author Cotter Bass and Moonshadow Publishing: https://tinyurl.com/4v68wcy8

Complete works of Cotter Bass and Moonshadow Publishing: https://moonshadow-publishing-shop.fourthwall.com

 

Next time: TOMMY ATKINS by James A. Kilpatrick . . . . .

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